black and white pictures
a shoebox of old photos
moments saved by the old folks
found on the closet floor
color negatives plastic strips
too many snapshots printed
boxes thrown in the trash unopened
colors faded to green and red
digital images two trillions a year
impossible to read or comprehend
disappear when power or devices darken
lost and search again in the clouds
Providence:
-written for my wife on our anniversary
Put forth the clock that
turns annually. A handful
of flowers is a gift
and a reminder that we have
to keep feeding and tending
so that it’ll last. They open
like arms that hold all answers.
See their throats, singing
praises to the one who will care
for them. What do we have
to tend still? Weed and thorn
climb every day, but we choose
to stay, nurture that which blooms.
And blooms again every time
I hear your voice.
What is it that I want to say?
Maybe how my love knows no bounds
how I am filled with so much love
that it hurts
Or how I can’t imagine my live
without you
For you who created the earth &
have my heart, what words can
I say to thank you?
Perhaps a poem is nothing unless
it stirs the heart to action
shifts neurons or releases
the clench we have over being
stuck in survival mode
What a gift to be an artist, for
to create is to praise this life.
And remind us why we are fighting to keep it.
there are days like this
every once in awhile
grey overcast hangs moodily
fits me like wet paper
yeah look and feel my best today
like something the cat dragged in after a three-day bender in a bramble patch
but that’s life
sun will dawn again tomorrow
and so will i
Until it gouges money away for those with disabilities
That extra cash keeps them in their homes with loved ones
Not in a warehouse with strangers who don’t know their quirks
Their love for music, candy apples, kittens on their lap
Slashes to programs that inspire independence, safety
Cost less to our pocketbooks and bring smiles
to those who ask for so little.
The train came to a halt among moss and boughs;
no station, no cross, and no sign there.
They walked downhill and stormed inside the train,
the scent of some strange flowers in their wake.
Was it the altitude that drummed on our ear drums,
or perhaps the rails that rang — we couldn’t tell.
The green surged and shimmered, fresh with raindrops
and all of us woke to its sudden spell.
While some of us got off to have a smoke,
or just to stretch our stiff legs there,
they rushed to where the platform ended,
and in big gulps, drank blue mountain air.
They got off the train at some gray town
and hurried off, dissolved in trivial cares.
We still remember them — sunlit, serene.
We still envy them and stare.
They have to go.
This partying all night.
It’s all so loud.
The stench of their urine
comes up through the floor.
The nerve of them,
coming right up on the deck,
in broad daylight,
robbing the cat’s food.
There has been no response
to the latest notice.
That mask over the eyes.
The way they run when
they hear me yell.
They’re so cute!
